


To a Steadfast Heart

by pixie_rings



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 100 Sentence Challenge, Angst, Bit of everything, Cute, Hanatamago Family, History, M/M, Running Away, Slice of Life, Temporary Character Death, Treaty of Roskilde, fingers - Freeform, fruit cocktail fic, interruptions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-22 22:57:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 12,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixie_rings/pseuds/pixie_rings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one hundred SuFin oneshots, showing the many sides of Sweden and Finland’s relationship. In war and in peace, in sickness and in health, for better and for worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> The title is part of a line from Sleeping Beauty: _But a hundred years to a steadfast heart are but a day_. Am I cheesy or what?

Sometimes, Sverige doesn’t understand why they take him along with them. He’s shared between longboats like some sort of baggage no one wants. If they would just leave him be, let him run wild and free like Norway can, then he would not feel so useless, like such a burden.

So he kicks the ground, dark and damp from the chill of early spring, and half-listens to stilted transactions and haggling over furs and spices in a language he doesn’t understand. These people they trade with and occasionally plunder aren’t his own, they belong to someone else, although he knows not who this ‘someone else’ is. He knows Norway, he knows Denmark, and he knows England… He’s seen Scotland, Ireland and Wales as well, and he doesn’t like them. But the one these people belong to… He’s a mystery.

In the end, bored like only a young boy can be, Sverige wanders off. He knows that, on the cusp of puberty as he is, he should pay attention and learn trade and the skills he will need to refine it, but… he can’t bring himself to be bothered, not today. Not when he is restless with sea travel and youth. So he takes to the woods, wandering among the tall, pale trees and humming along to the birdsong.

It is then that he sees the shadow flitting ahead.

He stops, he watches, alert, a hand on the hilt of his sword. His eyes, blue as the sea, are narrowed, gazing around. For a long, still moment there is nothing but the twittering of birds and the immobility of the forest itself, the silent thunder of growing trees. Slowly, warily, he takes his hand from his weapon, but his guard is not let down. There could be anything in these woods. Näcken and Huldra prowl the forests, waiting to snare the unwary traveller with music and beauty – although Sverige doesn’t think much of the huldra. She doesn’t seem very tempting at all.

It is only when he turns to leave, for one can never be too careful, that he notices the spear point in his face. He freezes, and looks beyond the sharp, pointed metal.

His breath is taken, his heart flutters, and he wonders whether this is a näcken come to whisk him away. He doesn’t think he would mind very much, as he loses himself in eyes the colour of heather. He’s never seen anything so beautiful before.

And, with a thrill along his spine, he also understands that this boy is like him. Deeper than human, built of culture, language and people. He cannot move, cannot speak, all he can do is remember to breathe, helpless as his heart is stolen.

The boy shouts something, demanding, angry, but Sverige doesn’t understand. He begins to raise a hand, and the spear is pointed at his throat by pale, sweet fingers. He stills, swallows and slowly lifts his hand to point at himself.

 _“Sverige,”_ he mutters. The boy glares, eyes narrowed in suspicion, until he nods.

 _“Suomi,”_ he says, indicating himself. They gaze upon each other, Sverige enraptured and Suomi wary, like an animal easily startled, ready to bolt at the slightest movement. The air is still, the forest still quietly alive around them, but everything seems brighter, clearer, as a ray of sun through a storm cloud.

There is a call of his name, Sverige turns, and by the time he turns back Suomi, beautiful, cryptic Suomi, is gone, fleeting like frost in spring.

Sverige watches where he has gone, deep into the shadows of the woods, heart pounding, filled with a longing he cannot yet begin to understand. With a strange certainty born from something only the gods can fathom, he knows he will see that pretty will-o-the-wisp again.


	2. Complicated

“I’m sure that piece doesn’t go there,” Finland said tartly. He was wielding instructions like a treasure map, and giving a very acerbic opinion on whatever Sweden did wrong. Which, to Finland, had apparently become everything, ignoring the fact that Sweden had been building furniture since he’d first figured out that a hammer wasn’t just for people’s skulls. The Swedish nation merely ignored him and continued diligently screwing the hinges on. He knew perfectly well where they went. Instructions were for foolish mortals who hadn’t hand-hewn the wood for their first marriage bed.

The two were sitting in what was going to become Sealand’s room, Finland cross-legged on a chair and Sweden kneeling in the middle of the floor, armed with a screwdriver and infinite patience. He’d built enough wardrobes in his time to not need the instructions, but Finland doggedly soldiered on with his waspish comments. Not that he could actually make much sense of the instructions. Wasn’t IKEA supposed to be the easiest thing in the world? Although… Finland did tend to have a problem even with the LEGO booklets.

He was the only person who could make a house while following the instructions for a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

“Are you sure it’s going to actually stand?” Finland asked doubtfully, giving the blue wardrobe door a dark look, as if its very existence were beneath him. Sweden rolled his eyes and spat the screws into his palm, levelling the other with a very pointed look.

“Y’don’t trust me, even when y’know I’ve built nearly all the furniture we’ve ever owned, most of it from scratch?” he demanded. Finland looked away haughtily, but the embarrassed flush was more than enough to give him away, and after a few interminable moments of Swedish staring, the Finnish nation deflated with a sigh.

“I just feel so useless!” he said, throwing the instructions to the side and folding his arms. “And scared! And nervous! We’re bringing this kid we barely know into our lives, all of a sudden, and I’m terrified! Not to mention my government’s whinging about me spending so much time with you, and… and it’s all so damn _complicated_ right now!”

Sweden blinked. Well, he hadn’t been expecting that. With his own sigh, he stood up and headed over to where Finland sat, pouting. He knelt in front of the other man’s chair, folding his arms across Finland’s knees.

“Don’t y’think I’m scared too?” he asked mildly. “Damn, ‘m terrified. What if ‘m not a good father? What if he doesn’t like us? What if he’s allergic t’dogs? Can’t sleep, sometimes, ‘m worrying so much.” He shook his head, offering a small smile. “’S complicated, but we can make it work. I know we can.”

Finland proffered his own smile in return, although it was mostly bitten lip and nervous chuckle. Winding his fingers around Sweden’s, he shrugged.

“I… I suppose you’re right,” he murmured. “It does get terribly overwhelming.” He stroked a hand through Sweden’s hair. As usual, it changed nothing of his hairstyle, and Sweden seemed to press into his touch like an overgrown cat.

“Sometimes y’think you’re not ready, even though –”

“– You know you are,” Finland finished. They sat quietly for a moment, eyes locked. There was uncertainty there, in both their gazes, but there was also determination. With a brief kiss Finland answered with an approving hum, Sweden returned to his previous spot kneeling amongst the contents of one of the many boxes they’d brought back from IKEA the day before.

“He’s going to be coming into a very strange family,” Finland remarked, resting his chin on his knees. “With a lot of history. I expect it’s just as daunting as us waiting for him.”

“We’re all going t’be nervous,” Sweden said simply, applying the final screw and allowing himself a brief moment to admire his handiwork. “Want t’help me put the rest of the wardrobe up? I need someone t’hold it.”

With a smile, Finland stood and made his way over to the rest of the wardrobe. Sweden was right. They could make it, no matter the complications.


	3. Making History

Sweden had never thought the taste of victory could be so sweet. Here he sits, watching Denmark curse him from between gritted teeth as he signs away half his empire. Norway stands behind him, shuddering as each signature is laid, every furious scribble of Denmark’s name a piece of him ripped away. His eyes, when they are open, are icy slivers of hatred. Sweden is unfazed. He has all he truly needs standing beside him, close, warm and _his_.

Finland licks his lips as Denmark lays his name on each line with a trembling hand. He leans into Sweden, running a sultry hand along the empire’s broad shoulders, a promise of things to come that night: the conqueror’s reward. Sweden leans into the touch, glances up, although he doesn’t want to miss a moment Denmark’s humiliation. Finland’s gaze is half-lidded, heated, enticing, deep enough to drown in. Sweden’s lips can’t help but twitch as arousal raises its fiery head in the pit of his stomach and sniffs the air.

He can also feel Denmark’s gaze upon him, daggers, and he turns back as Finland continues to stroke him, fingers delicate but hungry. His beautiful Finnish partner is almost in his lap now, perched on the arm of his heavy oak chair like an exquisite rare bird, a wanton, shameless juxtaposition to Norway’s straight-backed air of defeat. It’s obvious that Finland is taking great pleasure in Denmark’s mortification, almost as much as Sweden himself. Finland has a cruel streak Sweden would never have suspected from one so precious and perfect, concealed deep behind a smile.

Finally, the last signature is laid, and Denmark’s shoulders lose their tension. He deflates, falls forward, runs a hand across his face. Sweden enjoys the scene with hidden relish, made greater only by the knowledge that the humiliation is a thousand times worse for it is inflicted here, in Denmark’s own Roskilde. Norway, in a rare display of affection, places a comforting hand on Denmark’s shoulder, upon which Denmark places his own with a weak smile. It is a smile that says to not worry, and that Sweden wishes to wipe off. Violently. Finland snorts derisively, and the two across the table both glare. Sweden remains as impassive as ever as Denmark rises, trying to be tall and mighty and failing miserably simply by virtue of diminished territory.

“Happy, now?” he snarls, his boyish face twisted with contempt. Sweden gives a non-committal shrug.

“Until you need taking down another notch,” he says, and even he cannot keep the smug note from his voice. Denmark makes to lunge across the table, but Norway halts him, reins him in before he can do any worse.

Finland slowly takes his hand from his sword hilt, his eyes no longer heated and hungry, but cold and calculating. They never leave the two opposite him. Sweden has not moved an inch, more than secure in his power.

With one last disgusted look, Norway leaves, Denmark in tow. The once-mighty King of the North now brings to mind a beaten dog, and Sweden could not lie and say it wasn’t satisfying. Their nobles trail out behind them, a sorry band of bereaved losers, and Finland finally slides into Sweden’s lap, circling his arms around the empire’s neck. He is smiling like a cat that has stolen fresh cream.

“Look at you, my great, powerful empire,” he purrs, licking his way along Sweden’s lips, taking the bottom one between his teeth. One hand slides down Sweden’s chest, kneading through wool and leather, as he hums both with need and contentment.

 _“Dominium maris baltici,”_ Finland whispers before Sweden takes his mouth in a scorching kiss, all passion and the heat of power, their bodies flushed with arousal and conquest. This day will go down in history.


	4. Rivalry

He throws back the shot of vodka, slamming the glass on the scuffed, scratched wood. There’s a glint in his violet eyes, a spark of pride backed by too much testosterone.

“He’s hung like a horse!” he says, his Finnish accent thicker when drunk.

Across the table, eyes of a different hue have the same glint, as their owner downs his own shot, triumphant.

“Quality over quantity, mate,” he replies, grin vicious and just begging for a fight.

Sometimes, Sweden wonders whether Finland is worse than him, when it comes to Denmark and getting one up on him. Whenever they go out together, all five, they end up in a drinking contest. Or increasingly violent games of pool or darts – both of which Finland inevitably wins due to his impeccable aim. Or the karaoke contest, which Finland also won hands down with his knowledge of ABBA by proxy and wonderful voice. It’s almost as if Finland feels an inexplicable need to defend Sweden’s honour, tables forcefully turned, through the manliest (and sometimes not) pursuits one can find in a bar. Not that Sweden can’t defend his honour on his own, but… well, it’s very flattering to see Finland snarl Denmark down, even if it’s just a pissing contest. Norway also seems to find it entertaining, and it does leave the two of them alone to debate on the most disparate things, which Iceland sometimes joins in if he isn’t being blatantly hit on (white knee boots do that to you).

But tonight… tonight is different.

Sweden’s face is burning, his gaze fixed on his beer, and he’s even more silent than usual. Norway is sipping his own drink, blithely ignoring the heated discussion over shots that’s occurring next to him, and Sweden envies him. Iceland is huddled on a lone chair, shoulders hunched, cringing at the whole thing. His face it hotter than one of his volcanoes.

Finland snorts derisively and pours them both another shot of Koskenkorva. Vodka is not Denmark’s drink of choice, and it shows in his ruddy cheeks and slightly unfocused gaze, but he stubbornly refuses to be beaten by Finland. Which is hilarious, because while Sweden and Denmark often draw, Finland _never_ loses.

“Please, you stupid bastard, I bet you shoot your load before Nor’s even got it up,” he scoffs. Sweden’s ears burn. As much as he knows Finland is actually very sweet, when he’s drunk… well, he’s not used to the vulgarity.

Denmark tosses his head back and howls with laughter, like a wolf being kicked. “And I bet Sweden never finishes. Can he even _get_ it up?”

Sweden wants to slam Denmark’s face into the table at that remark, but Finland’s smirk is enough to let all seated there (except Denmark) that he has everything under control.

“He can get it up perfectly well, thank you. Multiple times. I heard you had the refractory period of a polar bear.”

Sweden catches the fleeting wince across Norway’s face at that. Ah, so that’s where Finland got it. Also, _ouch_. It’s not very nice to be reminded of what exactly happens to male polar bears during sex, and he crosses his legs under the table without thinking. Denmark scowls, and it’s obvious he’s scrambling for a reply.

“Well, you… you’re Sweden’s _bitch_!” he snaps. Everyone stares, and they’re all acutely aware that Denmark has lost the fight so badly it’s not even funny. Finland’s eye is twitching, and his smug smirk turns to a sweet smile of pure, unadulterated fury.

“Is that so?” he asks, his voice silky smooth and terrifyingly dangerous. Sweden would so dearly love it if they were still in the days when he could run Denmark through with a sword and no one would look twice, but they’re not. It’s best to leave it to Finland. Norway wisely abandons his drink, stands up and hooks Iceland under the arm.

“We’re leaving,” he says shortly. “Right now.” And he heaves his little brother up to frogmarch him out of the door. Sweden takes a last gulp of beer and swiftly follows. Even though he is more than happy that Denmark will get the shit beaten out of him, he doesn’t really want to see it.

Outside, he finds Norway scolding Iceland for wearing booty shorts again and shivering in the cold night air. He offers his long coat, which engulfs the youngest of them after he takes it with a grateful nod, not proud enough to weather the cold tonight. From inside come shouts and the sound of wood cracking, and not long after that out comes Finland, dusting his hands after a job well done.

“I shattered the table on his head!” he says proudly, and Norway snorts in the way he does only when he’s truly entertained. Sweden can’t help a brief grin and curls his arm around Finland’s shoulders.

“Teach him a lesson?” he asks. Finland nods proudly.

“One he’ll undoubtedly forget by next week,” Norway says, ever the pessimist. But he still smirks when Denmark stumbles from the bar and falls flat on his face, blood pooling from his head.

“He’ll live,” Norway says breezily, and together the four still standing head to the next bar.


	5. Unbreakable

“Mum, what’s that?”

Finland looks up to where Sealand is pointing, and smiles. At the very top of the cabinet where all of the good china is, sits one of Sweden’s first gifts to him.

“You want to have a look at it?” Finland asks, getting up from the sofa and heading over to it. Sealand nods eagerly, always happy to be allowed something he probably didn’t think he would, and Finland drags up a chair to take the elegant wooden sculpture from the cabinet. Sealand sits forward on the sofa keenly, staring at the piece of wood in Finland’s hand.

“This,” Finland begins, “was something your father gave me many, many years ago. We were… I think we were still in Denmark’s house, you know.” He sits back down, caressing the smooth wood with a fond smile. “He knew how much I loved swans. They were sacred in my old religion, you know, and my national bird is a swan.”

Sealand makes a face. “Swans are for sissies!” he says vehemently. “All white and pretty.”

Finland clicks his tongue in disapproval. “There’s a reason both Denmark and I have swans as our national animal. Did you know that a blow from a swan’s wing can break a man’s back?”

From the expression on his son’s face, Sealand most certainly did not. Finland smiles triumphantly, his hands wandering over familiar wood, over the beautiful curved neck and chiselled wings. Sweden was still young when he made it, still new to carving, and yet his talent already shone through. He had no idea where he was with paint or pencil, but he could hew anything from the most anonymous block of wood.

“Really?” the boy breathes, now fascinated. Finland nods.

“Yes, indeed. And they pair for life, too. If one swan dies, its partner will mourn for the rest of its life, and maybe even die of heartbreak.”

That was a familiar feeling, and Finland runs over the cracks where it was thrown to the floor by hands that had no right to touch it and then mended through the haze of tears by cold, shaking hands. He remembers that cold winter, when Russia was drunk and angry and the sparks of rebellion were beginning to flicker in Finland’s eyes.

Once again, however, Sealand drags him away from the thoughts of times long gone, and back to the happier present.

“Did Dad make anything else for you?” he asks, taking the swan carefully and studying it. Finland nods again, running a hand through his son’s hair.

“Lots and lots of things, too many to count,” he replies. “But this is my favourite.”

“Really?”

Both Finland and Sealand look up to see Sweden gazing down, leaning on the back of the sofa with the ghost of a smile on his lips. Sealand yells a greeting, and Sweden ruffles his hair with a chuckle. Finland, for his part, greets his husband with his own smile, accepting the upside down kiss, laughing at Sealand’s disgust.

“’Sbroken,” Sweden observes needlessly as he takes the swan from Sealand’s hands, studying the visible cracks held together with glue and prayers. “I could make you a new one.”

Finland shakes his head. “No, it wouldn’t be the same. This one… this one is special. It managed to come all this way without being destroyed, no matter how hard people tried.”

 _Much like us,_ he doesn’t say, but Sweden’s eyes and his brief kiss tell him he heard well enough.

“But it _is_ broken,” Sealand says, not quite understanding. He’s too young, after all. “The neck snapped off and you fixed it.”

Finland laughs again, slightly envious of his boy’s naïveté. “But it didn’t get lost, and it wasn’t broken beyond repair.”

Sealand frowns, trying to comprehend. It’s like he can sense there’s another meaning beneath his so-called mother’s words, but he can’t quite reach it or see what it is. But Sweden can, and that’s enough for Finland. Because they, like this humble wooden swan, were made to weather everything.


	6. Obsession

He loves them.

He’d first noticed them years ago, too many to count. They’d been travelling, Finland can’t remember where to and where from, but he knows it was early autumn. They’d built a fire (well, Sweden had – he never let Finland do much of anything), caught a rabbit and shared what little was on it, and Sweden had demanded to take first watch. Finland wrapped himself in his bedroll, tired but not enough to sleep just yet, and watched Sweden through the flames.

The other nation had been sharpening his sword, long, steady strokes down biting steel. It had been then that Finland had noticed them.

Sweden’s hands. They were large, broad, long-fingered. They held a sword with such prowess and skill that Finland almost envied them. They were a man’s hands, nothing like own, pale and delicate and slightly pudgy. The only thing they had in common was the roughness from combat and hard work.

It had also been the first time he’d wondered what it would feel like to have his bare skin touched by those same hands.

He knows now, of course. He’s felt their touch, their grip so many times, and yet it’s still electric every time, as if it’s the first all over again. It’s as if Sweden’s hands were meant to touch him, as if they were meant to wander over his skin and leave heat in their wake. The way they cup his face, deceptively gentle as Sweden kisses him. The way they travel up his thighs, spread over them, their hold steady and firm as Sweden ploughs into him. The way those fingers circle his cock, the way they feel inside him, the way they never leave bruises no matter how rough they get. Sweden knows his own strength, how to calibrate it: his hands never hurt when they’re supposed to love.

But the little, everyday things they do are enchanting too.

It’s how they can carve wood with such mastery, and sew with such misleading delicacy, and put plasters on cut knees and wipe away tears. How they scrub at muddy white fur, or peel potatoes, or type a mile a minute on the keyboard. Every silly little gesture, every movement… It’s as if those hands were made for everything, and Finland can’t help but stare.

“Y’have a thing for them, don’t you?” Sweden murmurs one night. Finland’s across his chest, basking in afterglow and taking every advantage to kiss each knuckle, nip at each tip, nuzzle the palm and touch his lips to the back. Finland looks up, flushing a little.

“Er…”

Sweden chuckles, tucking still-damp blond hair behind Finland’s ear lovingly. “Don’t have a problem with it. Could never have a problem with it.” He raises a hand, stares at it despite his lack of glasses. “Used to hate ‘em.”

“Why?” Finland demands, his tone one of outrage, as if the very idea is ludicrous. He takes Sweden’s hand back, caressing it lovingly with his fingers, tracing the contours and following slight scars and almost-disappeared sword calluses.

“Thought they were ugly. Worker’s hands, rough.”

“That’s what I like best about them,” Finland says, kissing the back of his hand. “They’ve been through everything you have, and yet… They still touch me like they worship me.”

It’s a very selfish thing to say, but it’s out before Finland can stop it. Sweden hums.

“That’s because y’are something t’be worshipped,” he says. Finland can hear the sleepiness in his voice, and continues his ministrations until the other is asleep. Then he finally tucks his hand into Sweden’s and closes his own eyes.


	7. Eternity

Well, here they are. The end of what came before and the beginning of everything that comes after. It’s strange, seeing the people they consider friends and family crowded there, in this tiny church. Finland feels like his face is going to fall off, he’s smiling so much. It’s a swell in his heart, the crashing of warm, beautiful waves as Sweden takes his hand, and he notices the other nation is as radiant as he is. Denmark offers a thumbs-up from where he stands behind Sweden, and for once he’s showing that he really does care for him like a brother. Finland can hear blubbering from behind his own back, and he hopes Estonia doesn’t look too terrible.

They still have photos to take, after all, never mind how eager the boys are to get out of their suits.

The vows sail by, he barely pays attention to them, lost in the unfathomable love and devotion in Sweden’s eyes. He repeats them when he needs to, meaning them from the very bottom of his heart. How long did it take them to get here? Seven, eight centuries?

It was worth the wait, to see that smile, a true, beautiful smile, on Sweden’s face.

“Don’t cry,” he whispers, winking. Sweden chuckles, blinks far too much and Finland does the same. It’s going to be difficult. Denmark fumbles in his pockets and breathes a sigh of relief when he lifts the ring to the light. Estonia does the same, the other hand clutching a frilly handkerchief that’s undoubtedly Ukraine’s. She sitting in the front row, and, well, it’s lucky she brought a spare.

The ring fits perfectly on his finger, where it’s supposed to go. Five hundred years ago he would have seen it as a chain, a shackle, something to keep him tied down as property. Now, however… it’s merely a symbol that he belongs to Sweden, and Sweden’s own is a symbol that he belongs to Finland. As men, men in love, which they always have been and just never had the courage to be freely until now. Finland’s only annoyed they can only be husbands in Sweden, for now, but he knows things will change soon. Even though Oxenstierna-Väinämöinen is an awful mouthful.

When the priest allows it, they kiss, and even though they’ve kissed a million times before, this is different. It carries the weight of vows and promises for the future, a future even more tightly knit than before, and it carries the depth of a love that withstood everything the world and history could throw at it and came out toughened. There are cheers, whoops and claps, and when they part Denmark thumps them both on the back. He looks a little watery-eyed, though he’ll never admit it. Estonia blows his nose and dries his eyes, hugging Finland tightly with a grin.

“You’re giving him bad habits,” Finland says to Ukraine when he gets a hug from her as well. She gives a soggy laugh as she dabs at her eyes, make-up a lost cause. Sweden, in the meantime, is being congratulated by France, Denmark and Norway.

“You did very well, _mon ami_ ,” France says, shaking Sweden’s hand and pulling him into half an embrace.

“Know that,” Sweden replies, beaming.

“Hey, hey, Nor, how about we-”

“I’d rather boil myself alive,” Norway says before Denmark can get any further, but there’s no hiding the pleased flush on his cheeks.

They take a few photos outside the church, laughing as they allow Hungary to mix pleasure and profit, for once. Then it’s off to dinner at this cute little hotel, Sealand and Ladonia can finally take off their suits and run around like hellions, and congratulations are offered. England and America shake their hands, so does Canada. Russia offers brief congratulations, although he looks very disappointed. It’s obvious he’s about to drag up some memories that have no place today, but with a cheerful greeting to a non-existent Belarus the Russian nation is off.

Estonia’s speech dissolves into bawling incoherency halfway through, and he has to sit down and take a long drink of wine. Denmark’s is memorably awful, as was expected, all good-natured jibes. It’s only at the end, when he raises his glass and his smile sincerely wishes them all the best in this world, that it becomes serious.

“We all deserve happiness, even though we might not think it. You two deserve it more than us. You two followed your hearts when the rest of us were still figuring out what that beating in our chests was. This has been a long time coming, we knew it would eventually, and now it has, well… it feels right. God, you’re teeth-rottingly sweet as it is, imagine you as newly-weds!”

There’s laughter, and Denmark bows his head.

“To Sweden and Finland!”

Everyone repeats the chant with raised glasses. Finland’s grinning like a lunatic, cheeks pink with pride and pleasure. Sweden dips his head, blushing shyly. Finland squeezes his hand under the table, and not for the first time he tells himself Sweden is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. More beautiful than thick winter snow, than lakes and pine forests and endless tundra, more beautiful than Turku and Helsinki and all of his people, his language, his heritage. Even the Kalevala.

They have the first dance, no one leading, no one following, foreheads pressed together and eyes only on each other.

“I love you,” Sweden murmurs. Finland tightens his grip on the back of Sweden’s neck slightly in response.

“I love you too,” he replies, and Sweden seems to burst with it.

A few hours later and it’s over. Nearly everyone’s drunk enough to have gotten to the point where public snuggling isn’t strange or even vaguely indecent (but that happens at every party, in Denmark and Norway’s case), and no one cares that Estonia’s asleep with his head on Ukraine’s lap as she chats with Latvia (who has Sealand’s on his). No one cares about Iceland cuddling up to Switzerland while Liechtenstein giggles like a madwoman. No one cares that Prussia is teaching Kugelmugel and Ladonia something that children should not know. No one cares that Spain and Romano have taken off to the bathroom, if the sounds from the last stall are anything to go by.

And no one cares that Sweden and Finland have disappeared. They’re on the terrace overlooking the lake, champagne glasses in one hand and the other entwined with its counterpart’s fingers. They’ve been exchanging few words and many small kisses, and now Sweden raises their hands to kiss Finland’s ring.

“Y’don’t know how long I’ve been waiting f’this t’be here,” he says softly, kissing Finland’s knuckles this time. Finland smiles, presses closer, abandoning his glass precariously on the railing.

“Forever?” he chances.

“Seems like it,” Sweden agrees. Finland laughs and pulls him into a kiss, their hands pressed between their chests. It’s long and languorous, a promise of slow, sweet love-making to come. They may have christened the marriage bed long before now, but that doesn’t mean they can’t do it again, as many times as possible. To be honest, Finland can’t wait. He runs a hand along Sweden’s shoulders, down to join the other at his chest. He’s always wanted him, so much, and now he just wants him even more. He’ll want him and love him forever.

“Well, we have eternity now,” he murmurs, nipping Sweden’s lower lip. Only the stars witness their next kiss, a kiss that seals their love for eternity.


	8. Gateway

They say the eyes are the gateway to the soul. And nothing could be truer than this in Sweden’s case. Sweden’s eyes are the warm blue of the ocean, and where his face says nothing, his eyes tell all. Finland could kick himself for not realising it sooner, when all he saw was the frown, the fearsome countenance, and all he felt was fear. Foolish, he now thinks, especially knowing Sweden as he does, knowing the man’s sweetness and kindness. A gentle giant indeed. But when Finland was afraid, he was also too afraid to even look into the other nation’s eyes.

He can’t pinpoint the moment he finally figured it all out. Probably sometime after dejected resignation, when he’d begun to realise he didn’t hate Sweden as much as he should in his captive existence. He can’t even remember what they’d been doing. All he remembers is a large hand reaching for his face perhaps to comfort, perhaps a brief surrender to that profound longing he kept so well-hidden, and a quick slap of his own.

“Don’t touch me!” he’d snarled, whether in Finnish or Norse, he can’t recall.

And then he’d seen it. Because he hadn’t lowered his gaze for once, defiant and glad of the small rebellion – that would teach him to not take such liberties – and he’d seen it. It settled in Sweden’s eyes, heavy like a shroud, and it hurt. It was pain, the pain of rejection, crippling and heart-breaking and, in hindsight, all Finland wants to do is reach back through the ages and hold the other nation to him, hold him and tell him he loves him in all the languages he knows and ever will know, and never let him go again.

But that day so many years ago, Finland had merely been taken by surprise. He’d gasped, flinched back, and then Sweden had lowered his head and left, and Finland was sure it had been his imagination. He’d told him to leave, to go, like the beaten dog he was, and when Finland thinks back he cringes, because Sweden is a mountain in a storm and even though Finland loves him, always has, it took him forever to understand it and he could kick himself for that.

At least that moment taught Finland to look for more of them. And he did, and he gradually learnt to read Sweden like a book. When Finland had finally overcome his stubbornness, those eyes were his window to Sweden’s innermost world. Fear and fierceness on the battlefield, affection in the house, tenderness and desire in the bedroom, the hint of possessiveness in diplomacy…

Even now, when Finland can read every subtle nuance of change in the other’s expression, he still uses the eye trick, especially when Sweden shuts down. There a moments, moments Finland can’t entirely comprehend, when Sweden folds in on himself, and his face becomes a stony mask. That’s when he pulls out his secret weapon. Usually it’s when Sweden is sad, or angry – rare, but it happens.

“Tell me,” Finland demands, because he can see the sorrow in Sweden’s eyes and he wants to know what’s hurting the man he loves so he can kick its arse so hard it’ll be permanently hospitalised. If it’s something that’s making him angry, he’ll kill it (it usually involves Denmark, so he can, and it’s quite a gratifying experience) It’s often something silly, because Sweden overthinks everything twice, but Finland tries to help as best he can.

When you’re in love with Sweden, every day is a lesson in linguistics. It’s quite lucky that Finland’s fluent in Sweden.


	9. Death

Death is something they’ve always known.

They’ve seen it take so many people, their own and others. They’d caused it enough times to remember how it feels, years and years after the last. And they’ve felt it on their own skin, the thrust of swords, the shard thud of arrows and bullets, the rasp of plague, enough times to still wake up shaking because of it. They’ve seen each other die time and time again, and nothing can quite compare to that pain. Because you never know if that is the last time, if they’ve run out of luck.

But they didn’t think this would ever happen.

It had been a game, innocent, silly, between two boys. A slip, a fall, and Sweden didn’t get there fast enough.

Now Finland is bent over, his youngest son’s head in his lap, sobbing. Sweden fares no better, Sealand’s hand held tight in his own, tears streaming down his face. Ladonia is gripping his brother’s legs, wailing his apologies, even though it is not his fault, and they are all terrified. Nations are immortal, their flesh is their people, their blood is their culture, their bones are their ideals. But micronations… what are micronations if not the ideas of madmen?

No micronation has ever died. They have never fought in wars, or had their citizens suffer so harshly that they too have collapsed into death.

What if Sealand cannot come back?

It’s too long, Finland thinks. It’s been too long, he won’t come back, they’ve lost their boy forever. He’s devastated, he’s furious, he’s screaming his terror into his son’s bloody hair. He lets Sweden drag him into his arms, his cries softening to broken sobs against his husband’s chest.

The woods around them are quiet. There’s no sound but their grief.

Until there’s a harsh gasp, a desperate intake of breath and Finland jerks back. Sealand’s eyes have rolled back in his head, his chest heaving, his nails clawing at Sweden’s arm. Finland feels the back of his head, feels, the blood dry and the bone knit. The skin reweaves itself under his delicate touch, and Sealand whimpers.

“Mummy… it hurts,” he moans, folding in on himself and crying. Finland clutches him to his chest, his sobs now of relief, and rocks him gently.

“It does, sweetheart,” Sweden murmurs, caressing his son’s head gently. Finland can’t say anything, he doesn’t think he could if he tried. Ladonia throws himself around his brother, weeping, ignoring Sealand’s whine of pain. Finland kisses their hair, both of them, their boys, and he glances up. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Sweden so relieved.

“Think we should go home,” Sweden says, his voice breaking slightly, and Finland nods. He cradles Sealand to his chest, humming soothingly. Sweden holds Ladonia, who is too exhausted and distraught to walk.

Finland doesn’t know how, and to be honest he doesn’t care, but he’s immensely grateful.


	10. Opportunities

Whatever Finland was cooking, it smelt good. For a change. He wiped his feet on the mat, shrugged off his coat and wandered into the kitchen to lean against the doorway and watch Finland sashay around, dealing with the food. A slight turn of the head, a hastily-hidden smile and there was no way that slight bend could be unintentional, not when it made Finland’s arse so inviting.

He wound his arms around Finland’s waist, pulling the shorter nation against him, back to chest, and Finland pressed back into him, tilting his head back and biting his lip.

“How was your walk?” he asked, reaching a hand back to slip it in the back pocket of Sweden’s cold jeans and give a good, firm squeeze.

“Good,” Sweden answered, lowering his head to pepper light kisses along that thin, pale neck. He ran his hands down Finland’s chest, large hands curving around his wife’s soft waist, and it would be so easy to just turn the gorgeous creature in front of him, lift him up and place him onto the worksurface. He could settle between Finland’s legs, still kissing him senseless, hands wandering over those delicious thighs, then…

“HI, MUM! WHAT’S FOR DINNER!?”

They both flew apart, red and extremely embarrassed. _Down, boy,_ Sweden thought to a certain part of his anatomy, and tried not to feel too disappointed. There’d be enough time later, after all.

.

Unfortunately, Sweden’s ‘later’ only came after a week – and completely figuratively.

The darkness was hot and thick around them, heavy with the promise of sex as Finland hovered over him, panting gently as he mouthed his way down Sweden’s chest. His nails raked along the other man’s sides to the jut of his hips, sharp and inviting. Sweden let his head fall back with a low, decadent groan.

He was going to enjoy where this went.

Licking his lips in anticipation, he wove his fingers into Finland’s soft hair, barely visible in the gloom of their bedroom. Finland laughed against the ridges of his abs, dipping his tongue into the other’s navel before continuing his descent, so close to his goal Sweden’s thighs were twitching…

“Daddy, Mummy… I h-had a nightmare!”

Finland spluttered and quickly rolled away, smiling weakly as he threw the covers on them and turned the table lamp on. Sweden had to fight so hard not to cry in frustration.

“Really, sweetheart?” Finland asked, in full-on Mother Mode. Sealand nodded, letting out the tiniest, most plaintive of sobs, and not even arousal could render Sweden insensitive to that sound. Hastily pulling on his bathrobe and hoping it covered enough to be considered decent (his problem was quickly going away anyway, in the light of his son’s distress), he crossed the room and gathered Sealand into his arms.

The boy buried his face in Sweden’s shoulder, sniffling and wiping his nose on the soft cotton, and Sweden dutifully let him, carrying him to the bed and placing him between them. Finland pulled on his own pyjama bottoms, smiling sadly at Sweden.

They fell asleep with Sealand curled between them, fingers knitted over their son.

.

Finland had been in Helsinki for the last few days. Sweden sat at his desk poking at the keys of his laptop dejectedly. He missed his wife terribly even over the course of a few, brief days, and, well… He wasn’t _usually_ one for phonesex, not being the most talkative of nations, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, so he reached for his Nokia and quickly dialled Finland’s number. At five o’clock the meetings should have been over, and Finland would be trawling through prickly pieces of paperwork…

The phone rang once, twice… Finland picked up on the third with a grateful sigh.

 _“You don’t know how glad I am to hear you,”_ he said warmly, and Sweden could hear the sound of leather creaking, probably as Finland settled in for a chat. Sweden mirrored him with a chuckle.

“Miss me that much?” he asked.

 _“You have_ no _idea.”_ Finland’s voice dipped to a low growl, pure aural erotica, and Sweden swallowed gently. Had Finland had the same idea…?

_“I was going to call you in about fifteen minutes…”_

Well, it seemed Finland had. The sound of rustling, more slight creaking, and Finland sighed the sort of sigh that he only let out in bed, warm and arousing.

“Y’know,” Sweden said, licking his lips, “was gonna ask you ‘bout your day, but don’t think I will anymore.”

Finland laughed, low and pleasant and like honey on Sweden’s ears.

 _“How about we just have a quick chat about what you’d do to me if I was there?”_ he murmured, breath hitching. Sweden spread his legs slightly, holding the phone to his ear with his right hand and toying with the edges of his shirt with the other.

“Think y’know perfectly well what ‘d do t’you...” he began, already halfway to hardness with the mental images that his brain so helpfully conjured up. The idea of Finland at his desk, suit in disarray, legs spread and cock standing tall and proud as he touched himself… it sent the most delicious of shivers down the Swedish nation’s spine.

“DAD! DAD, LOOK WHAT I- Ooooh, are you talking to Mum?!”

Sealand rushed in and vaulted himself into Sweden’s lap, which had the same effect of a bucket of ice cubes down his trousers, and grabbed the phone.

“Mummy! Mummy! When are you coming home?” he demanded.

Sweden could almost _feel_ the silence on the other end.

 _“Soon, sweetie,”_ Finland said, and Sweden was glad that the sound of gritted teeth was lost on their son. He was entirely sure the utter disappointment was mutual. _“Just have to finish a few more meetings. Should be home on Saturday morning.”_

Sealand cheered. “Hooray! It’s so _boring_ when you’re not here. Dad doesn’t talk much.”

Sweden made an indignant sound, which only worsened when he heard Finland laugh. _“I know, I know… I lived with him when he was much quieter than now.”_

Sealand’s gasp of horror would have been comical. In fact, it was, really. The whole situation was, indeed, like something from a cheesy American comedy.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be bringing conversation back for the weekend,” Finland assured the boy, and Sealand seemed content with that, if the quick goodbye was any indication. He handed the phone back to his father, hopped off and dashed away, taking the strange-looking piece of driftwood he’d found on the beach back out with him without even showing it.

Sweden sighed and Finland chuckled. “Don’t know ‘bout you, but I think ‘m done right now.”

 _“Nothing does the cold shower effect better than a conversation with your unwitting son,”_ Finland agreed. _“I’m actually horrified to admit it, but I don’t think I could get it up even if you teleported in front of me dressed as a berserkr.”_

“Y’ _really_ don’t know how disheartening that is,” Sweden said. “Was gonna get m’old gear out the attic.”

Finland laughed once more, and Sweden smiled. Finland’s laugh made everything better. _“See you on Saturday, Viking. I love you.”_

“Love you too,” Sweden said, waiting for Finland to hang up because he never could quite bring himself to do so.

“Dad, what are we having for dinner?” Sealand asked, popping his head around the door. Sweden rose from his chair and headed for the kitchen.

“How ‘bout fishfingers?” he suggested. Sealand’s gleeful whoop was worth the frustration, really.

.

“Welcome home,” Sweden said, leaving the kitchen to greet his wife. His smile faltered a little when he finally laid eyes on him.

Finland looked… _hungry_.

His briefcase was dropped to the floor unceremoniously, his coat thrown haphazardly, missing the coatrack by a mile. He gave Sweden the strongest case of Bedroom Eyes ever and launched himself, latching onto Sweden’s neck and trying avidly to suck his husband’s tongue from his head. He was making a series of very, _very_ attractive noises, mostly growls and grunts and the occasional purr, and now that he was firmly attached at the lips, he allowed his hands to stray, getting in a few, very good gropes in some interesting places. And all of Sweden’s higher cognitive functions melted out of his ears.

He wound his arms around Finland, hoisting him easily off the floor and into his arms. Finally, apparently remembering that being deprived of oxygen wasn’t conducive to long life, Finland pulled away, keeping their lips as close together as possible.

“Bedroom,” he hissed. _“Now!”_

Normally, Sweden wouldn’t have needed to be told twice. Normally, he would have tossed Finland over his shoulder and marched through the house like a man on a mission, to throw Finland on the bed and they would gleefully have their wicked way with each other. However, this time there was a problem.

“Dad, Dad, Mum’s car’s outside! Is he-?”

Punctual to the minute, as usual.

Sealand barged in, all eagerness, with Hanatamago at his heals. Sweden hastily dropped Finland, who didn’t quite manage coordinating his horniness-addled body and landed with a yelp heavily on his bum.

“Hi, Mum!” Sealand crowed, throwing himself at his shorter parent and squeezing tightly. Finland sighed and hugged him back. In response to the raised eyebrows, Sweden merely shrugged apologetically, helping Finland to his feet once both Sealand and Hanatamago had finished their enthusiastic greeting.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he said, ruffling his son’s hair and reaching down to fondle Hanatamago’s ears. The little dog yipped happily and rolled over onto her back to present her round tummy for scratching.

Both men sighed as their son started up a long tangent on where they’d gone for a walk, exchanging disappointed glances at the ruined mood. At much as they loved their son, this was going too far.

.

Right.

It had _officially_ gone too far.

Finland flopped on the bed beside his husband, both exhausted and frustrated at the same time. There was a coil of unspent arousal deep in his belly, hot and demanding. It had been there for a month or more, and it was driving Finland crazy. He groaned, planting his face in the pillow and kicking at the mattress weakly. He could almost feel Sweden’s gaze on him and he reluctantly lifted his head again.

“If we don’t have sex soon, my back is going to break,” he said hotly. Sweden’s face coloured, that absolutely _adorable_ pink it went when Finland said something sexually explicit. “We have to get Sealand out of the house, just for a night!”

“What d’you propose we do?” Sweden asked, lowering his novel and eyeing his wife. Finland huffed. He knew Sweden would never do anything of his own volition. Sweden could grin (well, maybe not grin, but certainly look stoic) and bear anything – three hundred years of watching from afar did wonders for one’s patience – but Finland… he was far too sexual a creature for prolonged abstinence. He rolled over and leant on his elbow, humming thoughtfully.

“We could… dump him on Denmark,” he suggested tentatively. He knew Sweden would protest at first, mostly on the grounds that Denmark was the worst influence imaginable and an even more pitiful role model. Sure enough, Sweden frowned for a moment, but then his face lit up.

“Means… he and Norway…”

Finland’s smile became devilish, and he rolled over onto his husband’s chest. “Exactly. Poor Denmark won’t get laid for the _whole weekend_ …” He slid a hand across Sweden’s chest, brushing over a nipple through the thin cotton t-shirt. “…And we _will_. The whole house for us…”

The pleasant rumble in Sweden’s chest was enough to tell Finland his husband thought it was a very, very good idea. It was also the only warning before he was rolled over and kissed breathless. Of course, Finland had to laugh, which caught Sealand’s attention and…

Well, the outcome was inevitable. It did, however, involve a tickle fight and yapping.

.

They talked about it over dinner. They could warn Denmark of it some other time. Like just after they left Malmö. Or perhaps when they were already in Copenhagen. Outside his front door. 

“Visit Uncle Denmark?” Sealand asked, confused. Finland shrugged.

“If you’d prefer Uncle Norway…” he began, but a quick shake of the head put a stop to that.

“Noooo, I want to stay with Uncle Den! He lets me eat what I like and stay up late! Uncle Nor is so _scary_! And there’s this lady called the hooldra that keeps looking at me funny.”

Finland blinked, alarmed, and exchanged a look with Sweden. A huldra? After their son? That did not bode well. Sure, they couldn’t see any of those creatures anymore, except Norway’s special troll, but that didn’t mean they weren’t _there_. Perhaps Denmark, for all his shortcomings – such as his basic failure to act like a functioning adult – really _was_ the better option. And Finland never thought he’d ever think that.

“Can I take my Transformers?” Sealand asked, drinking his juice all in one gulp.

“Y’can take two,” Sweden said.

“I’ll take Optimus and Megatron, that way they can fight!” Sealand announced. He then asked if he could be excused, as he’d cleared his plate, and dashed off to his room to find his toys.

.

Sometimes, Finland envied his son’s innocence. He sat in the backseat of the car, talking to himself in different voices quietly as he made the robots do… whatever it was they did (Sweden, who actually managed to understand all the things Sealand came out with, had told him they were robots that turned into vehicles; Finland had been bewildered by the entire premise), blissfully unaware of the reason he was being abandoned at his less mentally stable uncle’s house for the weekend. Not that Sealand minded, of course, because Denmark was his favourite uncle, but… Finland still felt a little ashamed.

It never did take long to get to Copenhagen. Sweden always called them the worst twenty minutes of his life, but at times like this, the Øresund Bridge was nothing but a blessing. Perhaps he wouldn’t hate it so much now – although Denmark would, Finland thought with some relish.

Abandoning the car for the pedestrian-only streets, it was a quick and easy walk to Denmark’s place. The glassy, slightly unfocused eyes and the wonky, far-too-happy grin on the Danish nation’s face, however, didn’t bode entirely well.

Sweden looked nothing short of thunderous.

“You’re high,” he stated in disgust. Denmark nodded cheerfully, sniggering like a fool.

“Yep. Got Ned and Oz over, see. Want some? ‘S _really_ good stuff.” His offer went to Finland, completely bypassing Sweden and his well-known intolerance of the stuff, and Finland rolled his eyes.

“Er, no. Actually, we were just leaving. Heading to Norway’s.”

Before Sweden could stop him, Sealand wiggled his way through his father’s legs and said a piercing hello. Denmark looked down, and his grin widened.

“Yo, little man!”

“Is that Sealand?” asked a voice from the murky depths of Denmark’s flat. Australia appeared out of the haze, ruffling the child’s hair. Sealand looked like Christmas had come early.

“Australia!” he cried, wrapping his arms around Australia’s middle and latching on tight.

“G’day, mate,” Australia said, laughing. He raised his head. “Give us five minutes and we’ll clear up.” And he winked.

Finland had the distinct feeling they’d been thoroughly busted, and he couldn’t keep it off his face. “Er, no, don’t worry… We really must be leaving. Right now.”

Sweden took the hint, grabbed Sealand and hurried away, offering a brief nod as a goodbye. Australia watched him go, puzzled, then looked at Finland, who was laughing airily.

“Our mistake!” he trilled. “See you around!”

“Y’might wanna call first, y’know,” Australia called once Finland was halfway down the stairs. “I learnt that the hard way!”

Finland was sure his face couldn’t get any redder as he stumbled out to where a relieved Sweden and a put-out Sealand were waiting for him.

“Car. Now. Let us never speak of this again,” he said, turning on his heel and marching back to their car. Sealand open his mouth to ask a question, but Sweden silenced him with a quick shake of the head. Some things were indeed better best forgotten.

.

When plan A fell through, plan B was implemented. Though this time Finland took Australia’s words to heart and actually called first. Norway sounded as if he was frowning, but then again, he always did.

 _“You want me to take Sealand for the weekend?”_ he repeated, as if he could barely believe Finland would dare to ask such a thing of him. Finland pinched the bridge of his nose, in no mood to translate Norway into Normal Social Interaction.

“Yes.”

_“Ah. I think I can imagine why.”_

Finland blanched. “D-did Denmark tell you?” he asked, horrified. Norway made a sound that might have been his version of derisive laughter.

_“Certainly not, give me some credit. I know exactly what it’s like bringing up a child, you know. The nightmares, the unfortunate interruptions… And Denmark was too stoned to figure out why you were there, anyway. But anyway, all right.”_

“All right?” Finland echoed incredulously. “What do you want in exchange?”

 _“Actually, nothing,”_ Norway said. _“Your boy can see… you’d call them_ vetehinen. _That’s a gift that has to be honed, and I’d be a disgraceful_ seiðrman _if I let that_ charlatan _of a brother of his deal with it. England wouldn’t know real magic if it bit him on the nose. Besides, he doesn’t pay enough attention to the creature. Fool.”_

Finland paused for a moment. The fact that Norway was seriously considering his son a candidate for magic was slightly unnerving. On the other hand, it meant Norway was more invested in their son than Finland had first imagined, which was a relief. He took the statement at face value, grateful, whatever the reason behind it. “Thank you. Oh, and keep an eye on that huldra of yours. Sealand says she looks at him strangely.”

Norway made another sound, but this one seemed more disgusted. _“Don’t worry, I will.”_ And from the tone of his voice, Finland had no doubt Sealand was actually in the best of hands.

.

Finland slammed the door shut as soon as they were inside, and he stood, staring at it suspiciously, for a good, long time. It was only when Sweden cleared his throat that he jumped and turned, eye jerking a little.

“I keep expecting the phone to ring,” he hissed. “Or someone to knock on the door. Or Hana to scratch at it. Or…”

Sweden shook his head and took his wife’s twitching hands in his own, kissing the fingertips. “Should hurry up then, hm?”

Finland smirked. “We certainly should.”

It really was a delicious relief to be pushed back on the bed, straddled and kissed senseless, Sweden thought. It felt so good, so liberating, to be able to run his hands over Finland’s body, slide his fingers under his wife’s shirt and get to soft, hot skin he hadn’t touched properly in what seemed like forever. He rolled them over, chuckling at the reproachful growl he got for that, and popped the button on Finland’s jeans.

This was going to be fun.

.

Finland flopped back, running a hand through his hair with a dopey grin.

“That…” he gasped, “…was amazing.”

Sweden chuckled breathlessly, feeling rather proud of himself. Three rounds… well, his age didn’t seem to be catching up to him after all. Finland rolled over, splaying himself across Sweden’s chest and hooking a leg over his husband’s with a very satisfied sigh.

“Glad I measured up t’th’task,” Sweden said with a mock salute, letting his fingers gently slide down Finland’s spine, following the curves and dips of his back and gently pressing upon the other nation’s tailbone, which caused a delicious shiver and a low hum.

“Oh, you measured up, all right,” Finland growled, making a very obvious statement of size with his hands that made Sweden blush. “I’m such a lucky man. Sore, but lucky.” He stretched luxuriously, reaching behind himself to rub at the small of his back. “I’m going to be feeling that tomorrow.”

Sweden’s face turned even redder, and Finland laughed before planting an affectionate kiss on the tip of the other’s nose. They lapsed into a content silence, Finland with his head on Sweden’s chest, circling a nipple with the tip of his finger, while Sweden drew abstract shapes all across his wife’s back.

“Was thinking,” Sweden began eventually. Finland hummed to show he was listening. “We should probably sit Sealand down and talk t’him ‘bout this. Can’t just keep sneaking and dumping him off on th’neighbours without warning.”

Finland sighed again, this one more resigned. “I agree,” he said, to Sweden’s surprise. But then again, Finland was nothing if not open, and hiding things from their son, even of this nature, wasn’t a very honest thing to do. Besides, sex was a completely normal fact of life, and they were married. Parents did that sort of thing.

“I mean, we don’t have to go into details,” he went on, “but we can tell him his parents want alone time.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Sweden said.

The silence stretched again, sleepy, satisfied and comfortable, until Finland’s light snores filled the room and Sweden smiled into the gathering darkness.

.

Sealand bounded into the house with a book on trolls he couldn’t understand, as it was in Norwegian, and a small pot of homemade _rømmegrøt_. He looked very pleased with himself, and Finland smiled as he was hugged.

“Did you have a good time with Uncle Norway?” he asked, ruffling his son’s hair. Sealand nodded.

“More than I expected,” he said, sounding slightly surprised with himself at that. “He told me he was going to teach me magic.” Now he sounded confused. “And that the huldra won’t bother me anymore.”

“Better not be teaching you _seiðr_ ,” Sweden growled as he entered the house. “You’re not old enough f’that.”

Sealand opened his mouth to ask why, but Finland headed him off with a loud laugh and a distraction. “How about we put your _rømmegrøt_ in the fridge and then feed Hana?”

Sealand trundled off after him, doing as he was told, and his parents exchanged looks. This was probably going to be harder than it seemed.

“Got something we have t’talk about,” Sweden said, watching his son put down Hanatamago’s bowl and stroke her fluffy head as she tucked in.  
“What?” Sealand asked curiously. Finland and Sweden exchanged looks again.

“I’ll make something to drink, and you two go sit in the living room,” Finland said, chivvying them away with a smile.

Sweden took the coffee mug he was offered with a brief smile and breathed a sigh of relief when Finland sat beside him on the sofa. Sealand was enjoying the biscuits and clearly completely oblivious to his parents’ inner turmoil.

“Listen,” Finland began. “We’re going to tell you the reason you went to stay at Uncle Norway’s.”

Sealand looked up, mouth full of butter cookies, expression curious.

“Sometimes… Mum and Dad like some alone time. Just for them. And it’s not because we don’t love you! Don’t think that for a moment!”

“Time t’hug for an extra-long time,” Sweden added, ignoring Finland’s eyeroll. Sealand made a face.

“To do things like kissing and stuff?” he asked.

“Well… a little more than that, but basically, yes,” Finland said. He could feel his cheeks burning, and that was a rather embarrassing thing to have happen in front of one’s son.

“Yuck,” Sealand stated, quite matter-of-factly. Finland laughed.

“I know, but you’ll understand better when you’re older,” he assured him. Sealand gave him the kind of look that said he didn’t want to understand better, ever, thank you very much.

“Can I go and play Pokémon now?” he asked. “I need to disinfect my brain.”

Both his parents laughed and waved him off. Once the sound of his socked feet had disappeared into his room, Finland seemed to deflate, sagging against Sweden’s shoulder with a loud sigh of relief.

“That went well,” he said.

“’Sprobably going t’wink every time we leave him with Norway, now,” Sweden said gloomily. Finland smiled.

“Frankly, I don’t really mind. I’ll take my opportunities when I can get them.” And with that, Sweden kissed him.


	11. 33%

“Oh, now that is _bullshit_!”

Sweden poked his head into the living room, one eyebrow raised in confusion. Finland had his arms folded across his chest, glaring at the screen as if it had personally offended him. Perhaps it had.

“Something wrong?” Sweden asked warily, wiping his hands on his apron. Finland snorted, waving a disgusted hand at the screen.

“These fuckers don’t know what they’re talking about,” he snarled. His anger was sort of ruined by the way he folded his arms again, slumped down in his chair and pouted.

“What’re they saying?”

“See for yourself!” Finland spluttered, turning the screen around so Sweden could see. Adjusting his glasses, he sat down beside his wife and began to read.

Some of it wasn’t exactly pleasant.

_Finland is a horrible country, full of racists! I hate living here!_

_No one should like Finland, fucking shitty country._

_Finland is a stupid place, no one helps anyone else!_

Sweden scowled and felt a distinct urge to reach through the screen and punch someone. The instinct to defend his wife’s honour ran bone-deep.

“Don’t bother with them,” he said gruffly. Reaching over, he wound an arm around Finland’s shoulders and pulled him closer, kissing the side of his head. “Not worth your contempt. I love you.”

Finland deflated a bit under Sweden’s hold. “I… I just…” He flailed ineffectually for a moment or two before sighing heavily. “Thirty-three per cent, Sve! Thirty-three per cent of my own inhabitants despise me! Look at what they’re saying!” He started pouting again, and it looked a lot more sorrowful this time around. “I don’t think I’m like that,” he added softly.

Sweden let out his own sigh, rubbing Finland’s arm comfortingly. “Y’know you’re not like that,” he said vehemently. “You’re wonderful, and ‘m not just saying that because ‘m in love with you.” He smiled triumphantly when he caught Finland’s weak chuckle. “They don’t know how good they’ve got it, if y’ask me.”

“Oh, so they’re lucky to be in Finland, hm?” Finland asked, raising an eyebrow. He seemed to have gotten a spark of his familiar tease back.

“You’re going t’make a sexual innuendo, aren’t you?”

“You know me so well, Sve!” Finland said with a laugh. He leant over and pulled Sweden into a kiss. “Thanks for cheering me up,” he murmured. Sweden hummed happily, reached over and closed the browser, pulling up a photo of Sweden, Sealand, Ladonia and Hanatamago. Just to be thorough, he closed the laptop as well, before leaning in to kiss Finland again.


	12. Dead Wrong

Sometimes Sweden wonders how the hell he could have been so mistaken in his earliest judgement of Finland. For years he'd foolishly construed the other nation as some pure, angelic being, something beyond the pleasures of the flesh and what they entailed. Finland, to his eyes, could commit no sins (indeed, even beyond his comprehension). Those were Sweden's cross to bear, when he lay awake at night in their bed and still gave a damn what the religions of men thought. Finland could do no wrong, and Sweden was not about to condemn him to eternal damnation, not even through thoughts unbidden. He probably didn't even know what sex was.

He'd never been so wrong in his whole, long life.

He would come to discover, in later years, just how sexual a creature Finland was. They'd both come to each other virgins, and Sweden was sure they'd never touched others beside themselves, but that wasn't the point. The point was that Finland was a demon in bed, despite have the face of an angel.

The first time they'd had sex, it had been during the years of his burgeoning empire, after years of kisses and brief touches that scalded Sweden like boiling water. Finland had dragged him from the impromptu revelling to their bedroom, torn off his doublet and undershirt and pushed him back onto the bed. There had been heat in his eyes, a hunger Sweden had never seen before, and it had stirred such longing in him he thought his heart would implode.

Watching Finland slowly remove his own doublet, then his own shirt, revealing a palle, smooth chest to the flickering candlelight had stirred something deeper than longing, something more akin to furious need. He'd propped himself up on his elbows, allowed Finland to crawl over him, push him down again, kiss him desperately.

“Are you... you certain you want this?” he murmured. He didn't think he could bear it if this night didn't reach its completion. Finland laughed, low, light and full of filthy promise.

“Oh, I want it. I want _you_ ,” he'd growled, cupping the front of Sweden's breeches, stirring a fire Sweden had been trying to quench for years, for fear of rejection and scorn and sin.

He realised, with a thrill down his spine, that he needn't hold back anymore.

The memory is still as vivid as that first night itself, fill of passion and hunger finally released. Sweden remembers how they'd moved together, how beautiful Finland had been in the throes of passion. He still remembers how Finland had moaned his name, the way his head had been thrown back, exposing his long, pale neck. He remembers the softness of his skin, the way the candlelight has muted the edges into delicate shadows, and the sheer _heat_ of it, of Finland against him, around him...

It is a memory he revisited many times during their separation. It had kept him going through cold nights, through the loneliness and heartache, through Norway's hatred and years of watching, impotent, as Russia did what he liked.

Sweden remembers their reunion too, in a ramshackle hovel in the middle of winter, with Russia at the gates and Sweden there on his own, openly disobeying his king. He had been Sweden the man then, not Sweden the nation. And then, seeing Finland's face light up with relief, feeling him stumble forward into Sweden's arms as if he'd never left them...

Watching Finland fight like a man possessed had been an incredible thing, a humbling thing, a reminder of his power and potential, so long squashed by the greed of other nations – himself especially. He watched Finland destroy Russia, make the maddest and mightiest turn tail and run in terror, and he'd been shown how Finland did not need protecting, much like he had shown Sweden that an angel face did not mean he did not know how to sin.

He'd been wrong about many things, then. About Finland's passion, Finland's determination, Finland's might in the face of adversity. At least, Sweden muses, he'd been taught right.


	13. Running Away

A hand held out, and Finland had taken it.

It had been dark and quiet, the dead of night. The entire household was silent as the grave in the deepest part of the night-time. He’d made a noise when he’d been gently shaken awake, perhaps the slightest of whimpers in his throat, but by the little light the moon bled into his room, he’d seen a single finger pressed to Sweden’s lips.

Quiet, lest they wake anyone.

Instinctively, Finland had known what was happening. He’d seen the look on Sweden’s face whenever he spoke with Denmark. The cold hatred and resentment, and Finland had prayed he would never be looked at like that.

It had almost seemed like a dream as he’d slid from his bed and hastily dressed, gathering the few belongings he couldn’t bear to part with into a canvas pack: his Bible, his best clothes, the few coins to his name. His hand had hesitated over the wooden swan Sweden had made for him, his talent still raw, yet the sentiment already so fierce. He’d glanced to the door, where Sweden had his back to him while he kept a weather eye on the hallway, and his fingers had closed around the figure with the utmost surety.

His pack went over his shoulder and he touched Sweden’s arm gently. The other nation raised an eyebrow and he’d nodded back.

He was ready.

Quietly, so quietly, they’d gone through the stable, stealing away like thieves in the night, the moon and the horses their only witnesses. Back in the hall, what was once both home and prison, Denmark would be sleeping, drunk as the weight of power drove him mad and mead was the only refuge. Norway would know that they were fleeing, but he would say nothing, nor would he follow. It was as if Norway knew their paths before they would take him, scrying a part of his _seiðr_ -knowledge. He would stay by Denmark’s side, lest the man break.

Sweden had unlatched the great gate and let Finland slide through, closing it as quietly as the creak of wood and metal hinges would allow, and then, they had run.

They had run, leaving behind the well-trodden roads for the wild woods, ignoring the eyes of creatures both animal and arcane. They had run until dawn’s tendrils crept up in the east, run until they could run no more and they had collapsed beneath an oak tree, the frozen morning air clawing at their faces and their breaths ragged in their chests.

Sweden had produced bread and dried fish from his own, considerably larger pack, and Finland had torn into it, starving. They had then shared a look, unlike anything they had shared before, and they had laughed together for the first time. They had laughed, Sweden’s deep rumble mingling with Finland’s light tones, allowing themselves a moment to savour the sweet taste of freedom.

All too soon they had had to move again, lest Denmark try to hunt them in his rage and madness. Finland had hid their tracks well as they went, leaving behind no trace of their passage. And as they had gone, Finland had allowed his eyes to wander Sweden’s broad back, and was secretly glad they were fleeing together.


	14. Judgement

The first time he'd said it, Finland had snarled at him. It had been during the early years, when Finland had hated to look at the other nation, because all he saw was the conqueror, the choking chain of being property. Sweden, for his part could only watch and close his eyes against the pain of rejection. To love with every fibre of his being and not be allowed to even touch... Death was nothing compared to this agony.

It had slipped out. It had been an accident, speaking to a minor noble at court, too fast and treacherous for Sweden to bite his tongue and trap the word inside.

“Don't you _dare_ call me your fucking _wife_.”

Finland had practically spat it at him, loud enough for everyone to hear. There was silence, oppressive and tangible, and Sweden stared at those violet eyes, narrowed in purest loathing and disgust. Finland had turned on his heel and marched off, leaving the hall with the swirl of his surcoat around his legs.

Sweden's heart had broken again, and he'd wished he'd had the words to tell Finland he didn't mean it.

That night had been icy in their shared bed, and the cold outside had had nothing to do with it.

.

The second time had been during the peak of his power, when he'd been astride the north of Europe in a golden blaze of imperial might. Sweden cursed his foolish tongue. This was why he hardly ever spoke, it ruined everything. He thought Finland would spurn him, despise him as he once had, and Sweden would lose this beautiful thing, the glorious thing that came with shared power.

But Finland had merely snorted in disgust. “Wife? I'm not your wife.” He pushed Sweden to his knees, and Sweden went easily, because although the Baltic knelt to Sweden, Sweden knelt to Finland. “I'm your lover, your _partner_.”

Sweden had taken him in his mouth, loving Finland's heat on his tongue, and had been grateful for his lenience. He did not know what he would do if he lost this.

.

The third time had been just after the Second World War. They'd been parted for so long that to learn each other again had been the sweetest thing. They'd been moving together, kissing, and Sweden had let it slip, accidental, like all the other times. They'd both frozen, Sweden in utter terror and Finland... he had no idea why Finland would turn so rigid.

Then he'd laughed. “Still saying that, Ruotsi?” he'd teased. Sweden flushed.

“'M sorry,” he muttered. Finland had shrugged.

“Just kiss me,” he'd ordered, and Sweden had readily obeyed.

.

The fourth time had been in the Sixties. They'd been having dinner. When Sweden realised what he'd said, he'd grimaced and couldn't bear to take his eyes from his plate. Finland had stopped eating. Sweden had glanced up from his food and found Finland looking thoughtful.

“Why 'wife'?” he'd asked. Sweden had been so shocked at the question he hadn't remembered to be ashamed.

_Why?_

Such a loaded question. Because a husband protected his wife. Because a wife was a better thing to have, once, than a male lover, in times when people were tied to stakes and stoned. Because having a wife meant stability, meant security, meant family, and that was everything Finland had been to him. Because Finland wore the pants.

Sweden knew he'd never be able to explain such sentiments. They'd sound hollow and foolish, and Finland would scoff. But he had to _try_.

“Because... because I always wanted t'make a home wi' you,” he said, simply.

Finland flushed. “Really? Not because you think I'm a woman or...?”

“Couldn't ever mistake you for a woman, believe me,” Sweden said vehemently. “Always wanted you t'know how much y'meant t'me, and... it never meant 'woman' or 'property' to me. Meant home and family and security. Wanted t'protect you, do what a husband was supposed t'do. Didn't work out.” He lowered his gaze, shook his head slightly. “Would've torn th'world apart for you. Man does that for his wife.”

Finland was quiet for such a long time Sweden was afraid he'd left, but when he looked up, Finland was still there. He looked touched.

“You... you really thought all those things? It wasn't to put me in my place?”

Sweden chuckled. “Still think 'em. It's wives that do th'place putting. You've always been th'boss.”

Finland preened slightly at that before he could help himself. “I...” He cleared his throat. “Maybe 'wife' isn't such a bad thing to be called,” he muttered, blushing again.

Sweden had offered him a smile.

.

The fifth time hadn't been a time at all.

With rings on their fingers and the rest of forever in front of them, Finland had laughed.

“I guess this makes me officially your wife!” he'd joked. Sweden had shaken his head, pulled him closer and kissed him.

“Nope,” he'd said. “Makes you my husband.”

Finland had stared. Then he'd kissed the other nation again, full of heat and hunger, and it had been perfect.


End file.
